Your Grace
by prosewanderer
Summary: The Viscountess and the Knight-Commander have a predilection for closets.


The Viscountess and the Knight-Commander have a predilection for closets.

The political and social necessity of attending galas and banquets and fundraisers reminds the Viscountess too much of noble years past, of jumping from one suitor to the next and curtsying and being well-versed in poetry, of filing away the sword calluses on her fingers and thumb and powdering the scars that lace coarsely over her shoulder and back. Even now, from her perch atop the Keep, the Viscountess craves insubordination and is satiated by fucking amongst fox stoles and gauzy shawls in the closets of the nobility. Kirkwallers have no need for heavy cloaks and woolen jerkins; their closets house excesses rather than necessities. It is with a certain Ferelden pride that she finds a practical application for all these pretty, expensive things, savoring the comfort of silk and refinement against her naked, sweat-slicked chest or her bare ass as she is pounded against the wall. She feels she has earned it.

The Knight-Commander is amenable to this particular indulgence. When she breaks away from the other guests, he notices. When he finds her standing before another unmarked door with a playful crook to her finger, he's happy to oblige. When the door shuts, they take respite in one another. Soon, the Viscountess is up against the wall, cradled in furs straining their hangers, sweaty and disheveled in disarray, with the Knight-Commander's cock buried in her ass, his sun-stamped gambeson still pressed and perfect against her back, a fine bead of sweat on his brow.

"As the moth sees light and goes towards the fire," she says breathlessly. She's learning the Chant, just for him. By happy accident, they've discovered the recitation of verses mid-coitus has an invigorating effect on him.

"Flame, your Grace," he corrects, but the rawness in his voice dulls his authority.

She peers over her shoulder, smiling mischievously, and is given a thrust of discipline. She pants, stifling a moan, and he falls in love with her one degree more.

There is a knock on the door. The Viscountess giggles, reaching for the knob, and the Knight-Commander quickly seizes her wrist. He thrusts again and it proves a suitable distraction. Her lashes flutter and she bites her lip. His breath catches.

"Your Grace?" Her assistant's voice is muted through the keyhole. "Are you… indisposed?"

The Viscountess begins to laugh quietly. This has the incidental effect of making her muscles clench, causing the Knight-Commander to bury his face in her neck to muffle his groan. He rocks his hips, reminding her they have unfinished business, and she makes the appropriate sound, and another when his body responds to the first.

"Your Grace?" Her assistant's patience has limits. "Magistrate Donell wishes to speak with you."

"Five minutes," the Viscountess says through the door.

"Five minutes?" the Knight-Commander murmurs, rocking again. But they have campaigned long; this terrain is well-explored and each knows how to breach the other's strongholds. He slides a hand between her legs, reveling in the way the ruler of Kirkwall shivers against him, and strokes her lazily, coaxing climax.

"She should see fire and go towards Light," she says, her cadence quickening with each breath. She's still playing the game, but he's past recitation now; he wants to worship in deed. He thrusts steadily, slipping fingers into her, drawing gasps and moans. He bites her neck (not too hard, he never leaves marks) and when she comes, fluttering under his hands, he follows with a forceful jolt of his hips, pressing her into the wall, straining the furs and scarves, causing a few to slip off their hangers and pool in the floor.

"Oh," she says, her legs trembling.

He embraces her. He wants to feel every quiver, each shaky breath, all the drumbeats of her heart.

"Knight-Commander," she mumbles, melting against him. He decides it's all the soft things—the furs and silks—that make her soft like this when they're alone in their closets. There's something particular about her when she's boneless and satiated, spent with sticky thighs and tangled hair and damp locks, flushed and radiant and warm. This is when she's most powerful. She could ask for anything, absolutely anything, and he would bend his knee and promise without a thought, whether it was in his power or not. But she never does. She never asks.

"Your Grace," he says, trailing kisses through her hair.


End file.
